


the map and the territory

by thefudge



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: (but the jeronica kinda sex/pillow talk), Bedroom Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Islamophobia (mentions), Pillow Talk, Snobby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Jughead is trying to have sex with his girlfriend, but she'd rather talk about French writers.
Relationships: Jughead Jones/Veronica Lodge
Comments: 17
Kudos: 91





	the map and the territory

**Author's Note:**

> look, the only way i'm going back to grading the rest of these papers is if I get this small oneshot out of my system.  
> thank u and good night! 
> 
> (also, i think we're all agreed we love jeronica in an established relationship, right? their "marrieds" vibe is just so good!  
> oh yes, the title is taken from one of houellebecq's books which the two discuss below)

Sometimes, her timing is spectacularly bad.

For instance, she has chosen this _exact_ moment – when he has already made short but gentlemanly work of her underwear – to talk to him about Michel Houellebecq of all people.

“It’s not that I don’t see what he’s doing; I just don’t know if he’s in on the joke, you know? Every one of his novels feels both like a peep show and some kind of social indictment, but which is it? Or is it all just satire? But then –”

“ _Veronica_. I am literally inside you right now.”

“Oh, I know. I like it. Carry on.”

Jughead grunts in annoyance, shifts awkwardly. He changes rhythm, slipping in and out of her sloppily, teasing her entrance, hoping she’ll devote more attention to him, but the siren merely wraps her thighs around him possessively, keeping him still, while her mind lingers on some French jerk who probably wears a lot of fur-lined jackets. He has to apply saintly forbearance to not sink to the hilt inside her and fuck the argument away.

Because they’re intellectuals and shit. And they have to close-read everything before they put it to bed. Literally, it seems.

“Sometimes I wonder; is he critiquing the practice of 15 year-old child brides or would _he_ like a 15 year-old child bride?” she muses, rolling her hips playfully, sending a jolt through him.

Jughead glares at her. He paws at a breast impatiently, stroking and brushing his thumb over the aroused flesh, bending his head to put her nipple in his mouth, only to hear –

“I mean, do you think he’s an Islamophobe or merely trying to push boundaries in a pseudo-bigoted fashion? Or maybe he’s just positioned himself as a truth-talker -”

Jughead lifts his head.

“I don’t know; let’s give Monsieur Houellebecq a call and ask him personally, since you’re so damn curious. Better yet, why don’t you write a query to the _Times Literary Supplement?_ ”

Veronica pouts. “I thought you liked the _Times Literary Supplement_.”

It’s one of their more curmudgeonly couples' traditions; lying in bed every Sunday with the paper, reading the juicy Letters page where old geysers and academes exchange the nerdy equivalent of angry diss tracks about various topics they disagree on. Last week, the big argument was about Isaiah Berlin’s unpolished essay structure. You know, exciting stuff like that.

Jughead heaves a sigh. “I do like it, but I’m trying to have sex with you right now.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“And? Any notes you'd care to share?”

“No notes. You are absolutely _nailing_ it, Juggiekins.”

He makes a face at her. “I hate you.”

“I know. But don’t you think he’s riling people up with his lewdness just so he can–”

Jughead scoops her up in his arms until they’re sitting up in bed and she’s straddling him. She hadn’t expected this change in positions and he can tell she’s both irked and pleased.

He cups her ass rudely and plants her back on his cock and she _finally_ mewls with some semblance of lust.

“Let's follow his sterling philosophy and do less thinking and more fucking, shall we?” he urges, nipping the side of her jaw.

“Mmm, I can do both. Can’t you?”

“If you hadn’t noticed,” he murmurs. “I can barely think in full sentences when you’re – _fuck –_ see, all it takes is for you to move an inch.” 

“You don’t seem to have _such_ a problem finding your words,” she teases, grinding against him.

“You have no idea the kind of effort I’m making. This could very well lead to an ulcer.”

She laughs against his mouth. “Actually, it’s your terrible diet that will lead to an ulcer.”

“Hey, you’re the one making me eat all those chia puddings.”

“They’re good for you!”

“They taste like socks.”

“They do not!” she says and slides down his cock angrily, making him hiss.

“Okay, they do not!”

“Now you’re just agreeing with me.”

“Uh-huh,” he grunts, hand on the back her waist, guiding her up and down slowly, loving the feel of her body against his, “whatever you say.”

“Smart choice,” she mumbles, tilting her head back, allowing him to fondle the side of her neck.

“And by the way, he totally does want a 15 year-old child bride,” he mouths against her pulse.

“Who?” she asks foggily.

“Houellebecq,” he says, but it comes out like “wolf trek”.

“What a pervert,” she concludes huskily, unawares, sweat-stained forehead leaning against his sweat-stained forehead. 

“Most French guys are,” he says, and it’s a pretty weird coda for their shared orgasm, but he supposes they’ve had weirder.

She crashes first and he follows after her, lips capturing lips.

He loves the sound of her muffled moans, reverberating inside him.

Also, she has a thing about not making too much noise in case the neighbors hear, since their flat has the thinnest walls imaginable (this is no Pembrooke, nor any other fine residence she’s used to) and he finds her thoughtfulness awfully endearing.

It’s also kind of hot.

In fact, their entire domestic routine is somehow designed to always keep him wanting more of the same old boring routine, because with her it’s weirdly electrifying and tastefully repressed and nastily liberating, all at the same time.

When they come down from the high, he lowers her down gently and wraps his arm around her loosely. They don’t cuddle too closely, because they both like some room after sex. 

“I do like that he includes his real self in that one novel, and then he has himself brutally killed in that same novel,” he says, continuing the thread of discussion, as if nothing had transpired.

Veronica smiles. “Yes, very you, isn’t it?”

His thumb traces a secret map on the softness of her belly. “Remember when you lent me that book on our first date in the city?”

Her dark eyes glimmer with mischief. “I was hoping it would land as a searing critique, but you took it for a compliment.”

Jughead grins. “I guess I was hoping you secretly liked me.”

“Pff. _You_ secretly liked _me_.”

“Okay, let’s say we were both –”

“Nope, _you_ pined first.”

“Wow. Petty much?”

She grins and scoots closer to him, kisses him softly on the lips, placing him under her spell all over again. It’s a mystery how she does it every time.

“Very. But don’t worry, I followed right after.”

He smiles against her lips, stupidly proud to know she pined too. “You did, huh?”

“Now, about _Serotonin_ ,” she continues, “do you think he’s sympathetic towards the yellow vests or –”

Jughead groans. He nuzzles the warm hollow of her neck and inhales her perfume.

Her timing may be bad sometimes, but fuck it if he doesn’t love her for it anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> the Islamophobia, btw, has to do with his novel, Submission, which I find maddeningly subversive and offensive, at the same time. hope it wasn't too jarring! thx for reading my weird 4 AM AUs!


End file.
